Last year a new do-nut shop opened in the strip mall a block from my house. Sometimes in the early morning as I walk my dogs the air is filled with the smell of cooking do-nuts, a heady mixture of yeast and sugar and sizzling oil that hits me like a rush. At that moment I want do-nuts, one, then another and another, all the do-nutty goodness promised by each intoxicating breath.
Only do-nuts make me queasy. One hot do-nut would melt in my mouth, so light it is almost nothing but an explosion of sweetness, and then I would want another, and even though I would not be nearly done tasting, tasting, tasting, I would feel my stomach roiling. Not to mention what limitless do-nuts would do to my already cautionary blood pressure, cholesterol, and body mass index. And the almost immediate carb coma.
I know this, and though I never buy them, still I want do-nuts. I am not hungry, and still I want do-nuts. I am seduced by the idea of do-nuts.
As you can guess, do-nuts are a…you know…metaphor.
For me the metaphor is the longing for an illusive temptation, something I don’t need, and is, indeed, bad for me, and even makes me ill, and that can never, ever give me enough to be enough. Like the next game of free-cell. Or another new book I don’t have time to read. The right recipe that will knock your socks off. The grievance I would control, expose, punish, forgive, and not forget because, darn it, you really hurt my feelings, and I never, ever want that to happen again.
Go ahead, name your own.
So is there really something else we are longing for? Some wholeness, healing, limitless holiness that offers not more desire, but peace?
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Ouch...those cigarettes I gave up smoking that turned into craving bowls of cereal and mini bags of SunChips which were ice cream and cookies for a few months. The part that gets me is how adaptable my body is. I said I wasn't going to grow out of my new size pants that I got into after Atkins, and amazingly, I can still put them on, but the fat has happily piled on in my stomach to accomodate the lower rise of my new size jeans. Really, it was always that way, but it seems sneaky now only because of the style of pants I now wear. Who knew? According to the doctor's scale, the stress of living with my husband and quitting smoking and still not having a magical career has gotten me to where I need to lose 20 lbs. again, which is a promise to myself I have broken, wildly and decadently. Time to start the serenity prayer mantra!
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